Time
by Bellsie805
Summary: Here's to time. A catalyst and the events that follow.
1. Allison Cameron or 36 Seconds Later

**Author's Note: **Inspired by _The Death of Superman_ comics (for some of the images), _The Nail_ JLA series of comics (for some of the inspiration), the unaired sides for the finale, _Superman for All Seasons _and Faulkner's _As I Lay Dying _(for POV and chapter inspiration.) A lot of angst, I know, but I love this story dearly. _House _and all the songs used throughout are not mine.

**Part I: And the Three Men I Admire Most: The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost**

_Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow,_

_And did you know_

_Your stairway lies on the whispering wind._

_And as we wind on down the road_

_Our shadows taller than our soul._

_--Led Zeppelin, "Stairway to Heaven"_

Time is broken into many pieces. Past, present, future, A.D., B.C., etc. Narcissistic people tend to think that their loved ones will look at their deaths and always remember what life was like before and what life was like after. So, we're given here a catalyst and the amount of time that has passed from that inciting incident. There are seconds, hours, days, weeks, months, and years—all told by different people all affected by the same event.

Here's to time.

""""""

The joke goes: _a horse walks into a bar. Bartender asks "why the long face?" _

It's not supposed to go: _a_ _doctor walks into a bar. Bartender asks her "can you help him?"_

But it's going like that right now. There's a bloody mess known as Greg House lying on the floor next to some bar stools and broken bottles. There's a man being restrained in a corner and apparently someone has called an ambulance and the cops (although I'm not sure if this is true.)

I rush to House slipping off my jacket as I do. My purse is thrown into the same pile with my jacket as I kneel next to him and take his pulse.

"Dr. House! Can you hear me?"

There is no response and through the blood I can see that his eyes are closed. I mutter several curses and am deeply pissed off about the fact that House could be so stupid to get into a fight with a lowly piece of bar scum.

"Get me some towels. Napkins, _anything_," I command to the assembled peoples, hoping one of them is not drunk and will listen to my commands.

I see a wad of napkins stuck in my face. A hooker holds them out to me.

"Thanks."

I take them and start cleaning up some of the blood. I don't know how bad the internal injuries are, but I can tell that House has gotten himself into a terrible mess this time.

I should have met him somewhere else. I told him this bar this time. It's been a mere thirty-six seconds since I've walked in and already I'm blaming myself. I do that a lot—blame myself. When there's no one else to blame and blame needs a place to rest, I'm the one who places it on herself.

House mumbles something, but it's incoherent. I bend my head to listen.

"Blood…"

He trails off and I suddenly find a dozen sarcastic comments running through my mind. I lean down to his ear and whisper not one of them.

"You taught me well."

I want to say other things, but I don't think House even knows that it's _me_ treating him. I could be Chase, Foreman, or Wilson, but instead he got me, Cameron. He knows that I like to heal damaged people—that's my "hobby", purpose, or whatever other designation can be given to it. I wish someone else were here to help; there's only so much I can do with bar napkins.

"How many times did he get hit?" I ask the prostitute.

"Oh, he got bashed up quite a bit. I don't know—as many as the moron could land before the bartender pulled him off. The guy smacked him with a couple of empty bottles, too," she tells me with a worried look on her face.

"Shit," I say as I notice House's dissent back into unconsciousness.

"Did he get hit in the head?" I ask with urgency in my voice.

"I didn't see all of the fight, but I think so."

Why do humans beat one another? _It's not guns that kill people—people kill people._ What the hell is wrong with us? Why do we go into flying fits of rage and take that rage out on someone sitting next to us at a bar?

"How'd he get himself in this mess?" I ask as I try my best to wipe up some of the quickly caking blood.

"I didn't want to go with scumbag over there, and he made him let me go. And then he got beat up by scummy," she tells me.

_Billy don't be a hero, don't be a fool with your life_. Lines from songs always float back to me at the strangest times. Whenever someone does something unnecessarily foolish because it's the "right" thing to do, I can't help but remember the lines from that old, old song.

"Where's the damn ambulance?" I yell more out of frustration than anything else.

I wait patiently for the sound of sirens, and check House's pulse again. It's slowing; this is not good.

"Here, Miss? Can you do me a favor? I need you to call 'Wilson' and 'Cuddy' and tell them to meet me at the hospital. Just tell them Cameron says it's an emergency," I tell the hooker and hand her my cell phone.

I watch as she presses some buttons to get to the address book and dials Wilson's number first.

I don't listen to her conversation; I'm too busy praying for House. Atheism sucks at a time like this.

She moves onto Cuddy and I hear the sirens of a fast-moving ambulance. I hope that these people can save his life, but a bit of doubt is creeping into my mind. Pessimism and optimism are interchangeable states of mind.

The EMTs rush in a do their job. They strap House onto a stretcher and move him into the ambulance. The hooker hands me my phone back and I smile at her.

"Thanks for your help."

"What's his name?" She asks.

"House. Dr. Greg House," I tell her and follow the EMTs into the ambulance.

""""""

Confined spaces are my least favorite places. I always feel in the way. Being in the ambulance is no different. I feel like I'm a bother even if I am a doctor. I'm offering my services to these people but they're turning them down, asking me just to hold his hand.

"Severe trauma to the head. There's definitely going to need some surgery done," one EMT tells the other.

I hold his hand and wish that I wasn't enjoying it. He's dying. It looks like he's dying. He might be all right, but God does he look horrible.

And a sudden thought strikes me.

_Where's his cane?_

"I-I need to go back. I have to get his cane."

The EMTs ignore me, but the thought stays with me as we speed to the hospital. _I need his cane. _

His hand is blood-soaked and his knuckles are cracked from repeatedly punching the man. House never struck me as a real good fighter. He's scrappy, sure, but he'd get his ass kicked nevertheless.

The ambulance ride is ages and eons longer than it normally would be if the patient were not House. My doctor-like demeanor has stayed with me all night, but is slowly starting to dissolve as we pull into the emergency room entrance. _The cane…_

The doors are opened and they roll House out quickly. They start running into the hospital and the only thing I can do is clutch the gurney and run with them.

We barrel down through the doors and the first person I see is Wilson. Cuddy is standing farther down the hall in her scrubs, prepped in the ER. She's not an ER doctor, but she's dean of medicine and she needs to be in there with House. Someone has to.

It is Wilson who pulls me away from the gurney as it is placed into the room. Cuddy looks at me.

"It'll be okay," she whispers before rushing in behind House's bleeding figure.

Wilson and I make our way back to the lobby. He has his arm around my shoulder and it is comforting. He guides me into the lobby and sits down with me.

"The cane—it's still at the bar," I whimper into his shoulder. My hands cover my eyes. It's been a long night and I'm trying to block out any more terrors.

"He has plenty of others," Wilson informs me.

"But…the cane. We've got to get the cane."

It's an odd mantra, but I repeat it until he finally relents.

"Fine. We'll take my car. On the way, you're going to call Foreman and I'm going to call Stacy. Somebody needs to be here," he tells me.

So we leave in his car. During the car ride I call Foreman and tell him House is in the ER and he needs to get down there as soon as he can. Foreman doesn't ask why, but comes. He's a good guy, Foreman is.

I know he will call Chase so I don't bother. Wilson talks to Stacy, and informs me that she is on her way. When we get to the bar, yellow police tape lines the outside. There are people loitering around. Wilson and I get out of the car and he approaches one of the officers.

"Hi, I'm Dr. James Wilson and this is my colleague, Dr. Allison Cameron. Our fellow colleague, Dr. Greg House was assaulted in here tonight. We were wondering if you found his cane at the scene?"

The officer looks at us.

"No, I'm sorry, we didn't."

I want to collapse, but I don't. When we reach the car and are safely inside, Wilson grabs my hand.

"It'll be okay."

It's a promise and he never lifts his eyes from the road on the drive back to the hospital.

We arrive before any of the others and we take the seats we left a few minutes earlier. By the time Foreman arrives, Wilson's pacing has started.

I pick at my fingernails and place the blame on myself—

House must live.


	2. Lisa Cuddy or 54 Minutes Later

_Every word you never said_

_Echoes down your empty hallway_

_And everything that was your world_

_Just came down_

_--Matchbox 20, "The Difference"_

"Scalpel."

I've been told I'm good in crisis situations. I should be—I'm a doctor. But I guess one of the things they like about me is the fact that I can be dispassionate—objective—when treating a patient. Or at least I attempt to be. All I can do, now, though is watch.

This is Gregory House lying before me on this table. I've treated him before, but seeing him laying here like this—it makes me want to scream. I've never been good at expressing frustration. I usually take it out on poor, helpless tennis balls and unsuspecting match partners.

I can do this surgery, but Steve Grossman is the best ER surgeon in the state. I probably would be a bumbling mess—the ER is not my favorite place.

"Scissors."

Steve and I date every now and then. The sex is good (House is right about the whole sexual harassment issue, but dating an ER doctor does have its perks—like now). One time, playing tennis, we were discussing the merits of working in the ER. I asked him, with incredulity in my voice, how he could like dealing with all the terrible emergencies. He told me he loves the excitement and the adrenaline rush.

I imagine you just have to be that type of person, then.

We've always tried to protect him from himself. From the Vicodin his body became addicted to and the alcohol his mind told him he needed. We tried to protect him from break-ups and heartbreak, but we never could. It is an inside joke between Wilson and I—how miserably we fail at protecting him.

It's been 54 minutes since he was beaten up and he looks no better. I'm attending this surgery, but I'm not being asked to help. These doctors respect my position, but they don't think I should be in here watching over even their most infinitesimal moves. It makes them nervous. But they'll be more nervous if the screw up on House and have to feel my wrath. Steve knows this and will occasionally glance to me.

Unconsciously, I guess I have always cared for House. You start to care for people with whom you squabble. He's a pain in the ass, yes, but he's a damn good doctor and I won't lose him because of some bar fight.

Cameron's frightened face, more than House's bloodied one, is the image stuck in my mind. Her eyes are wide and frightened. I can see the question in her eyes that she will never ask aloud: _why do people I love die_?

I am not one for weak women; they test my patience, since I fashion myself as a strong one. But Allison Cameron is different. She's a walking contradiction; she can be strong, but she falls back to being less than brilliant when dealing with men she wants to date. She's confused.

I think I hear dogs barking. It's a sudden thought and I whisk it out of my head quickly. _Dogs barking? In an emergency room? Jesus Christ, Lisa_.

But I know why I can hear the dogs bark. Just like Clarice sees the sheep, I hear the dogs. I have always been afraid of dogs, ever since I was little girl. One chased me, almost bit me, and I never again could trust a dog. When my mother died, I heard the cacophony of barking from dogs. My mother was a cat person.

I shake my head at the incoherent thoughts. As a psychologist once told me I drift because I can't come to terms with the death of someone close to me. Did I mention I have a deep hatred of psychologists and their five-cent pop psychoanalyses?

God, I fought to keep him during Vogler's rampage. I put my career on the line to save his ass. Wilson did the same thing, but that's Wilson. My heart's not as pure as Wilson's is, so it doesn't matter.

He can't die. Who will harass me about my low-cut shirts? Who will use that extra money in the "House legal fund?" Who'll be Wilson's Costello to his Abbot? Who will make Cameron blush? God, who'll _be _House?

"Needle."

There are things in this profession I detest as much as anything else. If you ask me to make a list of the things I despise about medicine the first thing on the list would be that you cannot save every patient. Is House another one of those hopeless patients?

I believe in God, but I don't know if he's benevolent or not. We're supposed to learn lessons from this life, but where are we supposed to use them? In the afterlife? I don't have enough faith to not be afraid of death; death frightens most people and I'm no exception.

If House goes like this, I know what people will say. _He just couldn't control himself_. _Cuddy got lucky; she's rid of a major problem. Good doctor, pain in the ass guy, though_.

There's his mantras running through his head, most notably _everybody lies_. I can't remember if it's "everybody" or "everyone." Memory's funny like that. So, if everyone lies, can't God lie? Can't these damn doctors with the grim faces lie about his condition? Damn it! I can lie to myself about everything else, but why can't I lie now?

Because I promise that I will tell Cameron and Wilson and the others the truth—when (not if, now) he dies. I'm a realist with some fatalist qualities. I remember Dale Earnhardt's crash most vividly. I heard it on my car radio on the ride home from Point Pleasant—the end of a beach-filled weekend. The first thoughts that flitted through my mind? _He's dead_. I root for people to die because it makes my life more interesting. Because it has an impact. Because those barking dogs never stop.

Wilson should be in here. If House has a constant, it's James. James Wilson with his taste for women and bitter men comforts Greg more than Greg wants to admit.

"Clamp."

I stand with my arms crossed in the corner of the room, waiting for Steve to tell me if he needs something from me. I'm probably a bother, but he won't ever tell me that. The sex is too good.

So, I watch as these doctors move around me trying to save a man many of them do not like. And that is why I stand here.

They must save House.


	3. Eric Foreman or 9 Hours Later

**Author's Note: **I have most of this written and I'm going to post another chapter tomorrow, and then I'm away until next Thursday, so I won't be updating. I have this story mostly done, so…. thanks for the reviews!

_I have squandered my resistance_

_For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises_

_All lies and jests_

_Still a man hears what he wants to hear_

_And disregards the rest._

_--Simon and Garfunkel, "The Boxer"_

It's been nine hours since we entered this waiting room. We've been in here for so long that our eyes are starting to play tricks on us. At least mine are. Stacy is conversing quietly with Chase in the corner. He taps his feet in some internal melody—he's been in hospital waiting rooms before. Wilson has been pacing for a good eight and a half hours now. There are some other people in the room, but his quite footfalls provide the constant melody for all of us.

It's not that he's pacing or that Chase and Stacy are chatting that is making me doubt my eyes' capacity to relay information to my brain. No, it's now when Cameron lifts herself resignedly from the chair, takes Wilson's arm, and pulls him back to the seat next to her that makes me doubt my vision. It's a gentle, caress-like touch that makes me second-guess Cameron's adamant love of House. Could she be doing…

I shake the thought out of my mind and go back to the three-month old _Sports Illustrated _on my lap. Chase isn't doing a crossword, so I'm stuck with reading about the Super Bowl. Something's wrong with the world tonight. If a meteor struck right around now, I'd be the least surprised guy. Everything has been so…off…tonight.

Speaking of meteors, I suddenly remember something my ninth grade science teacher once said. He told my class when we were studying astronomy that there were more people working in McDonalds than people watching for asteroids. I guess that means we're in deep shit since we need a lot of time to stop one of them from destroying life on earth.

We're in deep shit if he dies, too.

I got this fellowship with House and I'm happy I did, but he makes life so miserable sometimes. The jabs about the criminal history bother me less than they used to, but they bothered me at one point in time. We make mistakes; it's not like he hasn't.

What the hell are we going to do if he dies? Chase and I are going to be lost without those comments—we hate them, but we expect them. Dr. Wilson—this is the man's best friend. Stacy—she broke his heart. Is she ever going to forgive herself for doing _that_ if he dies? And Cameron. The poor girl's heart can't stand any more beating.

It's funny, thinking about it now. House has his own little "damaged" team. Chase with the alcoholic mother and his controlling father. Me with my little bit of a criminal past (I like to call it a "colorful" history.) Wilson and his divorces (I don't know the guy very well, but anyone who puts up with House gets pretty high marks for respect in my book.) Cameron with her marriage to a dying guy (Chase and I did some research—we're not stupid.) Stacy and just—everything.

Cameron tells us he hired her because she is pretty. He tells us he hired Chase because his father called. He tells me he hired me because I'm black. He lies. He hired us because we're like him—damaged.

I cannot concentrate on the magazine and I throw it back on the table. Some chatter stops and several people look at me.

"This is ridiculous. Should it take this long?"

I pace for the now-sitting Wilson. I know the answer to my question (I'm a doctor), but I want reassurance. House the bastard is invincible. He is not the evil villain who dies; he's the dark hero of medicine—Batman with a stethoscope.

Cuddy is sitting through the medical procedures being taken to save him. All of us want to go in and tend to him, but ultimately she is the most objective and can do her job most efficiently. She's the dean of the hospital; those surgeons _know_ she'll kill them if they don't do everything they can to save him.

My eyes again fall on Wilson and Cameron. He has always worries about her; he thinks she's too nice for medicine (Chase and I hear the worried discussion between House and Wilson on whether she can handle the job or not). But he also thinks she's very good for House. Now, though, she has her head on his shoulder and I can't help but notice his hand lying on hers, which itself sits on the shared armrest.

"Call me crazy," I murmur.

No one hears, because everyone else is engrossed in their own conversations—silent and otherwise. We're making up our reasons why House isn't going to die and what we're going to do if he does. We're all doctors (except for Stacy) and we deal with death on a basis more common than other professions. House is demanding a differential diagnosis from his bed. And if he dies, small pieces of us die.

It's funny, Cameron has been sitting there muttering every now and then about House's cane. _Where's his cane_? It's pathetic to watch; she sounds like a lost kitten that has been beaten one too many times. She's senseless and perhaps _cane_ is the only word she can grasp.

It's also Cameron who realizes he won't make it first and it's her sobs that are the first to penetrate the barrier of stoicism. Wilson holds her and Stacy and I exchange looks—we've known each other for a few days, but already we're thinking the same thing.

"He'll be fine. It is House," Chase reminds her gently from his corner with Stacy.

"And everyone knows Greg is a resilient bastard," Stacy chimes.

"You—no one saw him. His face…"

She trails off and she's right. None of us saw him except her, Wilson, and Cuddy. She called me and I called Chase. Wilson called Stacy. But she brought him here in the ambulance. She's the reason he's probably even alive.

Footsteps and not mine. Someone's coming out. We all wait patiently and with our breaths held. _Make a wish_.

It's not Cuddy. She makes promises that she keeps. She told Cameron and Wilson that she'd be the first one we'd see if something happened.

Someone else's family gets good news. I like giving good news. It's rare in this job, but I like giving it. Enough good news evens out the bad stuff.

So now it's just us damaged people in the waiting room. Sniffles from Cameron remind me of the gunshots I used to hear in the dark growing up. The light breaks through the window. Sunrise.

"I hate literature, but isn't sunrise the symbol of life in a poem or something?" I ask to the air.

"Yeah, it is," Stacy replies.

"You like literature?"

"Love it."

"You think it means something?" Chase asks me.

"No."

I grew up in a tough neighborhood. After a while, you start to know when things mean something and when they don't. Sunrises mean a dawn of another day. And the conversation ends as soon as it starts and we're no farther than we were before. Just a bunch of middle-aged people thinking on mortality.

The time is 6:14 when Cuddy emerges with her blue scrubs badly bloodstained. I stop pacing. Cuddy's got a good poker face. Stacy sees the bad news in her eyes immediately and her hand goes to her mouth.

It's a simple shake of her head. _No_.

"Time of…"

She wants to tell us, but she can't.

"Cause of…"

She tries, but the words fall into silence as soon as she attempts.

"Too much trauma," Chase informs the room.

"Yeah…yeah," her voice cracks and she bows her head.

Cameron's sobbing resumes and Wilson's tears mix with hers. Chase is too shocked to do anything other than hold Stacy's free hand. Cuddy takes off her gloves and shouts "damn it!" to a god she hopes exists.

The world shakes beneath my feet. I imagine CNN will report later that a meteor hit the earth.

House is dead. Nothing surprises me anymore.


	4. Robert Chase or 6 Days Later

**Author's Note: ** Of course I killed House. Magical recuperations are so not my thing. But, he's not gone. Not by a long shot ;-). Last update for a few days.

_By the pricking of my thumbs_

_Something wicked this way comes_

_Open locks whoever knocks_

_--William Shakespeare, Macbeth_

I am the proper person to describe this burial because I have seen enough of them to be able to become immune to the haunted feeling that stays with you after the funeral is over.

House didn't have many friends while he was alive. People, he suspected, would put up with him if they wanted to; if they didn't, it wasn't his problem. But now he's dead and it is said that when you die, you find out who your true friends are.

Surrounding the hole in the ground are the usual suspects. Wilson (his wife and he are on the outs again and she is somewhere in Jamaica; nurse station gossip is a passion of mine), Cameron, Cuddy, Foreman, Stacy, some of his old and healed patients, and myself. There's also a priest Cuddy has taken the time to coerce into doing this ceremony. She plans things with a severity and linear quality that makes the rest of cringe at how efficient it is. She doesn't ask for our help; she doesn't need it. Maybe she mentioned a detail or two to Wilson, but Cameron, Foreman, and I were left out of the planning.

This is one of the nicer funerals I have attended. I concede that it is small, but it's not the quantity that makes this nice. House didn't have many friends, but the one he did have showed. At my mother's funeral there were 200 guests who showed to keep appearances. Not one of them cried.

But here, this is different. Cameron sobs quietly into a handkerchief (I think Wilson gave it to her during the service.) Cuddy wipes tears away from her eyes at regular intervals. I offer her a tissue, but she refuses; she doesn't cry.

Stacy has this stunned look of disbelief on her face. She gropes for my hand every once and a while—human touch sometimes quiets the grief.

Foreman and I aren't crying, but Wilson's face looks like it will deteriorate into tears any minute. He stands next to Cameron and every once and a while he whispers something into her ear.

Foreman tells me his suspicion that Cameron and Wilson have something going on together. I laugh at him, but he looks pointedly at me every time they whisper to one another. In fact, they are standing quite close to one another…

It's a pretty cemetery—oak trees surround it and there are some other gravestones around House's burial place. Cuddy informs us beforehand that House has no living family, and thus this place is pretty and will do. Wilson delivers the eulogy; it's a nice goodbye to a friend.

We never attach ourselves to patients. It's not good. Once you become emotionally involved, things go wrong. But how can I not attach myself to House? He made my life miserable, but he's an example from whom to learn. He made the mistakes that we should never repeat.

His casket is covered in flowers as we bid our goodbyes. Cuddy has arranged that his body will be lowered into the ground with only she, Wilson, and Stacy supervising. Spectacles were never House's thing anyway.

I file past after Stacy and before Foreman. We are all under Cuddy's watchful eyes. But this is my time to say goodbye, to reflect on a man who wasn't necessarily kind to me.

_So it ends here. I respected you as a doctor, sometimes as a man, and always as a human being. Take care—don't give God too much grief_.

It's my silent goodbye and I join the others in the march towards the waiting cars. House will go to Heaven as much as he contends there is no such thing. He must. The group that trudges around me is a mixed bag; I remember some of the patients, but not others.

When we're all over at the cars and saying our thanks and goodbyes, I notice Cameron standing by herself looking towards the spot where the casket is being lowered into the ground. She treated him first, and it must have really scarred her because I spent some time with her last night and she was just so…out of it. Neither Foreman nor I could rid her of her daze. She keeps repeating, that it is all her fault. She tells us that she wanted to meet House at that bar at that time. She refuses to tell us why.

But as I shake hands with John Henry Giles the jazz musician, I see someone walk up to her. Giles walks off and I stick my hands in my pocket. The woman is dressed in knee-high black boots with a black skirt that has no place at a funeral. Cuddy's final joke to House? Bringing a hooker to his funeral?

I watch, though, and see Cameron's face darken and brighten at the same time with the recognition of this nameless woman. The woman shakes her hand and mouths some words. It is only when this woman hands Cameron a cane that it makes sense. _So, this was the hooker he saved_.

Cameron breaks down into tears and bends over like she has a stomachache. The woman rubs her back gently. Foreman and I exchange glances; should we help her?

This is the cane Cameron has spent the last six days mourning over. She misses House. She can't walk into the conference room without picking up his coffee mug and shattering into tears. But she keeps going back to that damn cane. _I wish I had his cane_.

It reminds me of the movie, _Citizen Kane_, where Kane's last word is "rosebud." It is a mystery why a powerful man repeats the word "rosebud" when he is about to die. But this is even stranger. House has (had) many canes to walk with—why is this one so different?

I see Wilson's head turn from where he, Cuddy, and Stacy are standing. He sees Cameron and he tells Cuddy something. She looks back and nods affirmatively to whatever he has asked. He runs a hand over her back before running up the hill to where Cameron stands crying with the woman.

This whole thing is a strange dance in melodrama. Wilson holds Cameron while she clutches House's cane. It's everything I can do not to scream, _what the hell are you crying about? He never said he loved you! He never treated you the way you know you should be treated!_

I walk over to where Foreman is saying goodbye to various funeral goers.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"What?"

"That Cameron is so worked up over this whole bloody affair."

"Well, she must have really loved him."

Love is a concept that escapes me at times. Foreman raises his eyebrows.

"What I want to know is what Wilson and Cameron have going on," he tells me.

"You think…"

"I think a lot of things. As House would say, it doesn't make them right."

Cuddy and Stacy walk up from House's grave together and converge on where Wilson is standing with Cameron and the cane. Cuddy smiles gently, but there are thin lines on her face that are too taut and she looks miserable. Stacy frowns and wants to go somewhere. I know she has no idea where, but she is dying to be free of here.

I do not put much stake in funerals, having attended enough of them. Funerals are brief pauses in time to remember those that we'll remember whether we want to or not. All of us will remember House even if he is dead. But we don't need a funeral to say goodbye because most of us here will never fully come to grips with his death until we miss his quips and his comments.

Long lives the king.

_**End Part I**_


	5. Lisa Cuddy or 3 Weeks Later

**Author's Note: **Baaack! And I'm fresh with new ideas after my excursion to the beach. I love this story to death and have a terrific idea of where it's going. I also have a few one-shots in mind. Stay tuned! (and thanks for the patience and reviews!)

**Part II: The Three Fates**

_Have heart my dear_

_We're bound to be afraid_

_Even if it's just for a few days_

_Making up for all this mess._

_--Snow Patrol, "Run"_

It is said that time is the great solution to pain. It is a long, drawn-out healing process perhaps, but it is the only one that truly works. With time, the waves of grief and pain slowly recede and all that is left is a bit of an empty space. But even time cannot make up for certain unchangeable facts. In Part I, the catalyst of House's death was presented and shown through the eyes of four people. In Part II, the repercussions from his death linger, weeks and months after the tragedy.

Here's to time.

""""""

It has been three weeks since House's death and normalcy has returned to the hospital. Occasionally, I pause when I pass his old office or I'll look around for him and think, _where's House? I need him for clinic duty. _It's always those times when it hits me the hardest—_if I need House, I can find him at the cemetery_.

The staff cowers when I walk by them. I hear the whispers that I have gotten crankier since the death of House, but I attribute it to the fact that Steve and I haven't slept together in a week or so and that I haven't hit a tennis ball in the same amount of time. I need to work out those damn endorphins in my mind.

But my mood is stormy for other reasons, too. Chase and Foreman tell me that Wilson and Cameron are awfully close—apparently they found them together in a clinic exam room watching television. I have been able to write it off as two of House's greatest supporters coping with tragedy, but it's been three weeks; how long can you grieve for a man?

Wilson is my best oncologist and the head of his department. Cameron is a talented immunologist. What the hell am I supposed to do? If they have something between them…Wilson's married and I have a hospital to run. With the pressure from Chase and Foreman, I might have to say something to them. I'm thinking about asking Wilson to a meeting; I hope it's nothing.

The new diagnostician is John Rowe. He's good—I managed to convince him to come over from the Mayo Clinic. It took some prodding, but he finally did. House's ducklings are now under his tutelage. He's an excellent doctor, and his bedside manner is ten times better than House's (alright, anyone's bedside manner is better than House's). He solves the cases that he takes on and he has yet to lose a patient. I'm waiting (the fatalist in me is) for the moment he does lose one—is Cameron going to crack?

When or if Cameron cracks, what am I supposed to do with her? The staff can't help but feed one another to me. Sacrifices are fun. But the girl needs to get over herself. She meant nothing more to House than a simple possibility.

I arrive at my office and find Wilson sitting inside looking out the shaded windows. I enter and smile in his direction.

"Dr. Wilson. How can I help you this afternoon?"

"Leave Allison alone."

His words startle me; first name basis? Warnings?

"James, you know perfectly well I haven't done anything to her."

"I have friends in this hospital, Lisa, and I know what Foreman and Chase say about her."

Goddamn those nurses who buzz around like they have something important to do, and all the while get the good gossip from the doctors.

"Then you need to tell her to take some sick days and come to terms with this whole thing. It's ridiculous, James! I can't run a hospital _and_ worry about a grieving doctor at the same time!"

"There's something wrong. You should look closer. House wouldn't have been afraid to."

"I'm not House and House is dead. Stop talking about him like he was a saint. He wasn't! He died in a bar fight—"

"A bar fight he did not provoke, Lisa."

"—But a bar fight nonetheless. And you need to watch out. I'm warning you as a friend, James, the board doesn't like hearing from two doctors that two other doctors are hooking up between shifts."

"Lisa, you know that's not true."

"From House the saint: _everybody lies_."

He stands up and he leaves the office without another glance in my direction. I collapse in my chair.

Dr. Wilson's a good man, but _too _good of a man. Cameron's going to screw up a procedure one day and the patient's going to sue the hospital, meaning its my ass that gets in trouble, too. I can only look out for them so much before I have to look out for myself.

"Everybody lies," I murmur.

I still can't remember if it's _everybody _or _everyone_. I let my head drop into my hands; the murmuring staff is right—I have lost my mind.

There's just too much that I can't deal with right now. Being strong (and along with strong comes nasty) is just my defense mechanism. I miss House's barbs and taunts as much as the next person. But these wounds need to heal quickly; I have a hospital to run.

It's the barking dogs that make me look up from my hands.

"You have a hospital to run, _Cuddy_, and too many damaged people to control. Do you miss me yet?"

I look up and can't help but wonder why I see Greg House standing in front of me. His cane is splayed out to the side and he is standing rather jauntily.

"You're dead."

"Aren't we all?"

And he disappears with the blink of my eyes. Facts and reason escape—nothing makes any sense. I don't if what I just saw standing before me is a figment of my needy imagination or of something more tangible. But I have never believed in ghosts and my mind needs some sort of familiar belief to grasp on to at this moment. Uncertainty have been in the air these past few days.

The dogs stop barking.

There's a choice I will have to make in the coming days, hours, and seconds. I know it will come and I know I will have to respond to Foreman's conflicted eyes and Chase's heavy, but stubborn, words. They'll be damnations and accusations and I can't help but think that everyone, especially Wilson and Cameron, die every time they walk by House's office.

_Old_ office.

I know I do.


	6. Julie Wilson or 3 Weeks Later Part II

_Well she was an American girl_

_Raised on promises_

_She couldn't help thinkin' that there_

_Was a little more to life_

_Somewhere else_

_Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, "American Girl"_

I watch the phone. It is an unparalleled waste of time, but it is a fun exercise in seeing how long I can possibly sit and stare at an inanimate object. I do it all the time; time never passes faster.

I move first and the number of the lawyer's office in my address book pops out and me, and I want to call. I _do_. I _must_. But God knows that the messages from my brain are not making it to my fingers. _Move, damn it! Move!_

I want to scream out loud because of the sheer frustration that accompanies the thought _I can't_. The phone dares me to continue moving. It dares me to finish my deed. It taunts me and I contemplate throwing it out the window. _That_ would get James' attention.

The romantic in me yells with all its heart "he loves you! He really does love you! He wouldn't have married you if he didn't." And it's the proud feminist in me that shouts with equally brainy venom, "he wouldn't cheat on you if he loved you. You don't need any man to make you feel worth it."

It's a pity that the romantic's version is so sugarcoated.

I wonder if it's time that I believe what I saw instead of refuting it with so many powerful excuses and reasons that he wouldn't do anything to hurt me. But does seeing something make it true? Does the truth reside in the lies that he tells me to cover up for the hurt he causes me?

I think about seeing him, sitting there, stroking her hair so gently and then moving down to her stomach. Soft, gentle caresses. I stood at the door for a good five minutes before he noticed my gaping mouth and accusing eyes. He jumped up and the woman's brown hair was disturbed.

"He's a bastard."

"Cheat!"

"He's _so_ not worth it."

All my friends' accusations pile into one flaming heap of angry words. None of them make me happy.

I can stand the whispers about James' affairs with the nurses because I know he would never stoop that low (nurses are fabulous people, but James is attracted to powerful women—that's how he got me, Miss Über-Brilliant Realtor)…and James' reputation means more to him than to anything else in the world—including me. He cleans that reputation and polishes it until it gleams—perfection takes practice.

He tells me that her name is _Dr._ Allison Cameron (after I walk out and call her a slut, but before I come back and call her a home-wrecker.) She's an immunologist and worked for House. I laugh when he comes up with excuses every morning just to come home late at night. Hypocrisy is an interesting virtue.

The mask of docility I wear around the house disappears every time I think about her. _Allison Cameron_. Even her name sounds sweet. He always wants to explain the reasons why she laid on _our _couch that night, but I never let him. Things are rocky lately and with House's death James relegates himself to sitting in front of the television with a beer in hand watching old game shows rerun on Game Show Network. He plays along to 30-year-old Match Games and screams at Richard Dawson on Family Feud.

It's been three weeks since House's death and I cannot stand the man James has become. It's not only the woman lying on my couch a week ago, but also he fact that he never attempts to carry on discussions anymore. He used to chide me for not starting conversations, but now he doesn't even bother to talk to me unless it's a remark like "pass the salt."

So, it's led me here to this phone, reaching for the receiver. I want to talk to someone, tell them how he's been lately. Divorce is not an option I want to pursue, but it is one I must. He makes his bed every day and sleeps in it every night.

The phone rings and I leap on it. Maybe it's James—maybe I can make these divorce thoughts go away.

"Hello."

"Um, I think I have the wrong number. Is this James Wilson's residence?"

It's a female voice and my head drops to my free hand. I cringe at the feminine nuances to the voice and wish that this were a dream.

"Yes, who is this?"

"I'll just call back later."

"Allison Cameron," I smirk into the phone and massage my eyebrows with my free hand.

"Mrs. Wilson, look, I'm—"

"Sleeping with James. I know, but do you have to call here and gloat about it?" I ask with bitterness. She has no right to call here.

"Look, I was just calling to find out if Ja—_Dr. Wilson_ made it home all right. He left work early and he seemed upset. Is he okay?"

"James is not home. But you should know that better than anyone else? How do like _making love _to my husband. Is it delicious? Does he care for you?" I snarl. _So the feminist has won, _I think to myself.

"Listen, I don't know what you think James and I are doing, but I'm not sleeping—"

"Screwing."

"—him. I would never do that. He's a married man."

"You're too…naïve…to lie."

"And what's your problem? Are you too bitter to listen to James explain why he spends his time with me?"

"And why would that be?"

"N-nothing. I'm sorry I even called. Goodbye."

The line clicks dead and I hang the phone up before savagely grabbing it again. I look down at the address book, pick up the phone, and start dialing the lawyer's number. The home-wrecker's phone call is the final note in this melancholy piece.

"Hello, I'm looking for Fred Young. It's Julie Wilson."

I wait to be transferred.

"Hey, Fred? Julie Wilson I was wondering if…hold on a minute, please."

My voice trails off as the door opens and James' sad eyes meet mine.

"James, the home-wrecker called; call her back."

His mouth opens to respond, but I clear my throat and continue talking to the

lawyer.

"Sorry, Fred. I was just wondering if we could have a talk about making up some divorce papers."


	7. Stacy Warner or 3 Months Later III

**Author's Note: **So, I changed chapter 7, because when I reread it and thought about where this story is going in my mind, all I could think was: SOAP OPERA and MELODRAMA. So, I'm trying to avoid that. I also must thank ACMD for telling me about Cameron's "fetus is life" thing. That kind of bothers me because I like to stay in established canon. Thus, a revised chappy 7. Sorry to confuse everybody.

_Clouds keep moving to uncover the sea_

_Stars above us chasing the day away_

_To find the stories that we sometimes need_

_Listen close enough all else fades_

_Fades away_

_--Jack Johnson, "Constellations"_

I sit on the toilet in the patient's bathroom, peeing. A small smile forms on my lips when I am finally relieved. I've been holding this in all day and I am simply happy, for I have not wet my pants.

As I pull up my trousers, I hear a soft whimpering from the stall next to me. I flinch at the soft sounds. These past three months have been filled with tearful nights spent alone at home, while Mark recovers here. I miss Greg, I truly do. I miss everything we had and everything that could have been. When he was alive there were possibilities. But now—now that's he's been in the ground for three months, those possibilities are also gone.

I look at the stall next to me when I exit my own stall. I feel bad for the woman inside—sadness is a terrible feeling, but there's nothing I can do. Grief, I find, is best dealt with when one is alone. I sigh, and turn to wash my hands, but something catches my eyes as I start to move—these shoes are familiar.

They're familiar because I see them at least twice a week. They're pretty and I've commented on them several times because of their practicality. These tweed ballet flats are perfect for her—youthful and sexy without being skanky.

"Dr. Cameron? Are you okay? It's Stacy," I tell her as I knock on the door.

"Oh, Jesus," I can hear her murmur and the door half-heartedly swings open to reveal a bit of a bedraggled Allison Cameron sitting on the floor.

"Allison? Are you okay?"

She contemplates her answer for a moment before looking me in the eye.

"You're a lawyer. You know about client-attorney privilege?" She asks.

"Of course."

"Then I'm not okay."

The significance of her question and then her response to my question escapes me, but I know it they mean something.

"What's wrong then?"

"Attorney-client privilege?"

So that's what she wants. She wants complete confidentiality for something.

"Yes. But would you like to move to my office? It's much more comfortable than in here."

"No…it'll be okay in here."

She feels safe, I reason, because it is 9:30 p.m. and not many patients are typically around at this time to wander into the bathroom.

"What's wrong?" I am tempted to add the word "dear" to the question because my mothering instincts kick in, but I do not.

I watch Cameron take a deep breath and think about these last few months. Greg's death, her supposed relationship with James, James' divorce, threats of firing from Lisa…apparently it has all been too much for this poor girl.

"I…I'm…" her voice trails off and she looks up at the sky. It is a darkly comic scene, I think, somewhere between melodrama and grief does this moment reside. She turns back toward me.

"I'm pregnant."

I steel my eyes and my body.

"Are you sure?"

"Three months. I went to the obstetrician today to make sure. _Three months_," she leans forward and whispers vehemently.

"Does _he_ know?" I ask. James has to know.

"No. No, and he never will!" I watch her battle her tears.

"But you must tell him. He'll hear…he will," I promise.

She laughs bitterly and suddenly it clicks.

"You're not thinking of getting an abortion are you?"

Another laugh leaves her mouth and she drags herself off the floor. I can't help but wonder about the affect of grief on people. This woman in front of me has gone from a relatively sweet—if cloying and clingy—pretty good doctor to a venomous, emotional disaster. It makes sense if she says she's pregnant, but I can't help but feel that Greg's death is also still hanging over her head.

"Thank you for your time, counsel, but I'll be leaving now."

I watch her strut out of the bathroom. Greg used to strut like that.

My game plan forms in my head. I wash my hands and then push open the door. I head in the direction of James Wilson's office. He and I need to talk. I know all about attorney-client privilege and the confidentiality that goes along with it. But Cameron never signed any papers and she never paid me for my time. Loopholes are what I do for a living.

I enter James' office and find that he is sitting, looking over various charts. He spends his time here in the office. Lisa and I worry about him over coffee and tennis matches—James _cannot_ become Greg.

"I didn't know that screwing Allison Cameron gave you a right not to use condoms."

"Why does everyone in this hospital think I'm screwing her?"

"Because she just told me she's pregnant!"

"She told you?" He looks up from his papers to look at me.

"Well, under attorney-client privilege. But you know already! She told me she wasn't going to tell you—ever!"

"Hysterics make you look older, Stace. Remember what House used to say?"

I grimace.

"Not _now_. Is this why Julie up and left on you?"

"Julie up and left on me because she's neurotic and paranoid."

"James, c'mon."

"C'mon what? Why can't you and Lisa leave her alone?"

I step closer to his desk.

"But," he hits the desk with the back of his pen, "why can't you leave me alone?"

I turn around and start towards the door. I open the door gently. I face him.

"Because we don't want you to become Greg."

""""""

When I walk into Lisa's office I immediately become a traitor. I know it and she can sense this, too.

"Lisa,"

"Stacy," she murmurs from her position on the couch where she is laying. She has an arm thrust over her eyes.

"Cameron's pregnant," I tell her.

She sighs, but doesn't remove her arm.

"I had a feeling."

"Are you okay?"

She removes her arm.

"Do you realize Greg's more of a pain-in-the-ass in the afterlife than he was when he was alive?"

"What the hell, Lisa?"

"You don't see him?"

"Ghosts?"

"He's mocking you right now."

"Lisa?"

"Please, Stacy. Not right now."

"Have you seen a psychologist?"

She laughs bitterly and I figure leaving the room now would be a good choice.

As I exit I hear her call to me in the hallway

"He says he loves you!"

It's as I stand in the hallway, with the doorway to her office shut when the tears starting to fall down my face.

"She's nuts and he's lying," I murmur to the hallway.

"If Cuddy loses her mind, then we're all bloody lost," a voice whispers from the darkness.

"Dr. Chase?"

"Yeah, you okay?"

"Terrific. You?"

"Caffeinated," he replies happily.

"You know where they keep the good stuff?"

"I have friends," he smiles.

"Fantastic," I tell him and follow as he walks down the hall.

After Cameron's pregnancy admission, James' bitterness, and Lisa's…_craziness_, I need some damn strong coffee to clear my head.


	8. Eric Foreman or 3 Months Later Part IV

_Someday soon we all will be together_

_If the fates allow_

_Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow_

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas now_

_--Frank Sinatra, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_

Chase and I sit in the conference room staring at each other. I'm missing my coffee cup and he's missing his good, Mont Blanc pen.

"You took my damn pen," he whines.

"My coffee cup's missing. C'mon, just give it up."

"I think you took your coffee mug."

"Why would I hide my coffee cup?"

"Because you're loony and covering for taking my pen."

"_You're_ loony."

"Get another coffee mug."

"Get another pen."

"You could use House's…"

His voice trails off and I glance back at House's red cup. It's been collecting dust for the past few months. Cameron picks it up, stares at for a few minutes, and then cries for the next five minutes every time she is in the room. It is pathetic and tough to watch. Chase and I have long given up trying to comfort her.

Our pagers beep in harmony and we reach for them in unison, but I am the faster draw. I see Cuddy's number and look at the page.

_Rowe and Cameron are out sick. Don't break anything. I'm sending someone to baby-sit._

"She thinks we need supervision," Chase is appalled.

"You do. You can't keep your hands off those nurses."

"I'm not all over pharmaceutical reps!"

"That was six months ago. At least I've seen action."

"Who says I haven't?"  
"Just the fact that you've been…how do they put it where you rich boys come from? You've been…_cranky_, lately."

"Horny in the 'hood, I imagine?"

"If you want to put it like that."

"We should take the day, too. It's pointless for us to be here."

"Oh, but the cases to solve," I enthuse.

"You sound like House."

"The sarcasm or the enthusiasm?"

He glares at me and then stares remorsefully at his empty crossword puzzle.

"I can't believe I lost my pen."

"You'll get another one."

"But that's my _lucky_ pen. I've signed lots of important contracts with that."

I give him a small smile.

"You'll find it eventually. It's a small hospital."

"No, it's not, but thanks," he smiles back. It's as close to an emotional moment as we'll ever get. Even after House's death we never became close—we're just colleagues—competitive ones.

Chase stands up and walks over to the white board that Rowe's left only because we pleaded with him to leave it. Cameron almost bit his hand when he tried to drag it out of the room. She doesn't like him and he doesn't like her. All three of us agree that the white board helps us to think—and reminds us of House (the man was larger-than-life during his lifetime—now he's larger than God for most of us.)

"Okay," he writes _Possible Babysitters That We Would Never Be Lucky Enough to Get_ at the top of the board.

"Carmen Electra," I tell him.  
He writes.

"Kylie Minogue," he scribbles.

"She Australian?"

"'Can't get you outta my head, boy you're all I think about'…that girl," he tells

me after he sings me some lyrics.

"That's good to know which team you play for. But I'd prefer if I weren't 'in your head.' Halle Berry," I suggest.

He writes her name on the board and Angelina Jolie's underneath.

"Jennifer Aniston."

Underneath Brad Pitt's former wife's name goes Britney Spears'.

"What is up with you and outdated pop stars? J. Lo."

After my suggestion he sticks Heidi Klum, Nicole Kidman, and Pamela Anderson.

"No, no. You don't like Pam Anderson. You like her _boobs_," I tell him.

"And you don't?"

"I like mine real, thanks."

"Hey, you were out on the West Coast, right? You ever treat one of these girls?"

"No, unfortunately. Although I once saw—"

Before I can finish my wonderfully false story about once seeing Beyonce Knowles' trying on clothes, Stacy walks in with a coffee mug (mine), pen (Chase's), and crossword puzzle in hand. She pushes the door open with her hip, since she is engrossed in the puzzle.

"Hey, boys, eight letter word for _unobservant_," she looks up blankly and innocently at Chase and me. _Clueless_.

"My pen!" Chase gasps, drops the marker, and then picks it up from the floor.

"My coffee cup! There better be some good coffee in there," I tell her.

She places the cup on the table and throws the pen across Chase's crossword puzzle. She smiles conspiratorially at him.

"Late night?"

"No," he spits back. I realize I'm missing something.

"Please tell me you two aren't doing each other like Wilson and Cameron are. There are only so many of these loving relationships that I can stand. Where can I put in for these affairs?"

"How long were you with Greg? God, you remind me of him. You have his sarcasm," she shudders visibly, but her eyes catch on something at a level higher than my head.

"I enjoy good gossip any day," I tell her as she stares above my head.

She stands up quickly and I grab my coffee cup from where Stacy has left it on the table. There's a pink lipstick mark on the white ceramic. Damn it. I let it take its place back on the table and find my eyes following Chase's and thus following Stacy.

She reaches up—ever graceful—and removes a rather heavy magazine. She flips through a few pages. I slide over to where she is standing and look at the title of the magazine. _Parenting?_

"Why's that up there?" Stacy muses aloud and keeps flipping through the magazine. Chase is still by the white board.

"What is it?" He asks.

"_Parenting_," I reply.

"So, our dear Dr. Cameron is _pregnant_," Chase says thoughtfully. I turn to look at him immediately. I hear Stacy flip the magazine shut.

"She tell you that?" I ask.

"Have you seen her stomach?"

"I haven't been looking."

Stacy takes a seat at the far-end of the table, gazing at the magazine in front of her.

"He's right," she says softly.

"You're kidding," my voice is incredulous. _I'm _incredulous.

"No, I'm not. She told me last night," she folds her hand on the table. Her voice is _lawyerly_.

"Who's the father?" Chase asks with his ever-present Australian accent slurring his words.

"Wilson."

She says it so convincingly that I can almost believe it's the truth. Shreds of doubt (as ever-present as Chase's drawl) form and swim through my mind.

"But, she hasn't been with him long enough," I protest.

"She clung to him after House's death. Three months ago," Chase points out.

But Cameron doesn't love him, I think. She loved House. She still loves House. I visit her sometimes and it's House's cane she grasps and holds. It's House's grave that she asks me to accompany her to on nights that are too dark. It's House's name she utters when she criticizes Rowe for being cautious. She is firmly in love with the idea of House since House no longer resides here—among the living.

"Well, what are you two going to do with that bit of information?" I ask the two, who are now looking at each other.

"I think we should go to Cuddy," Chase suggests.

"I did."

"That's where you were last night," Chase remarks.

"Yeah. She says she knows."

"Then we go to the board."

"Why are you so eager to turn her in? Because she's turned you down or because she has a conscience?"

"She's sleeping with a superior!"

"We'll take it to Cuddy since it appears she is set on keeping the baby," Stacy points to the magazine for the extra emphasis. I want to tell her that she doesn't need to sound so important. Her tight smile and crow's feet already make her older than Chase and I; her damned annoying air of self-importance makes her important to Chase.

_Solve the equation_, I think, _if money equals power and power equals corruption, what is money? A simple use of the substitution property. Money equals corruption. _Stacy knows whose ass to kiss.

"I'm not going," I say resolutely.

Stacy's eyes glimmer. She's as green as the Wicked Witch of the West.

"She told me it's his baby. And Wilson didn't deny it."

"Doesn't mean it's his."

"Foreman, we both saw with him numerous times in the exam rooms. At lunch. _Leaving together_," Chase reminds me.

Suddenly, the humorous atmosphere from earlier in the morning seems oppressive. I think for a moment. I can lie about the magazine and say it's Rowe's or mine, but human nature prevents me from doing it. Only the best people don't hurt others. It's the human condition. A trap it might be, and I fall into it every time. I stole a car. Broke into a house. Made fun of colleagues for enjoying each other's company. This is what we do. We make mistakes. And we learn from them. _To teach Chase a lesson or save Cameron's ass? Why do I have so much more faith in her than I'll ever have in him?_

I had an English teacher once who used to talk all the time about the human condition. _The human condition makes us who we are. The human condition is an anomaly to us because as humans, we look at ourselves with a biased eye. But, the human condition is flawed meaning that it's perfectly human_. She's right.

"I won't say anything."

"You don't have to. Nod your head every once and a while," Chase instructs.

"Are we going now?" I ask.

"Sure. You guys busy?"

I longingly gaze at my stolen and returned coffee cup. I want to scrub it until the enamel rubs away and Stacy's lipstick is long gone. I want to scrub my face until my skin peels off and I have to be the one treated. I want to be free from life, from making decisions, from feeling so damn self-righteous. Stacy's right; I want to be House.

"I'll meet you outside her office. Let me get some coffee, first."

The two look at me before leaving the room and I stare at the black liquid in front of me. Chase and Stacy aren't at fault here. They're basing their decisions on morals. On values. On gut instincts that we're told to believe are right. I don't know if Chase is basing his on a long-forgotten religious belief he once had or if Stacy is basing hers on the fact that House had an option in Cameron. But they're basing this stupid decision on what they learned growing up in perfect houses (mansions, probably) in good neighborhoods. I have morals, values, beliefs…but, I'm basing my decision on something learned from a hard won position…something that's common among gang members…

I won't open my damn mouth in that meeting because I have something that those other two think they have…they do have it, but it's to morals and values and all the wrong things—

Loyalty to a friend.


	9. James Wilson or 3 Months Later Part V

_Pistol shots ring out in the barroom night_

_Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall._

_She sees the bartender in a pool of blood,_

_Cries out, "My God, they killed them all!"_

_Here comes the story of the Hurricane,_

_The man the authorities came to blame_

_For somethin' that he never done._

_--Bob Dylan, "Hurricane"_

"Dr. Wilson?"

Can I ever get any paperwork done? Is that so hard to ask? At least when House used to bother me, he was always entertaining. Stacy's stories are mired in melodrama, Cuddy is angry at the world it seems, and every one else is just a bother.

"Dr. Foreman, what do you want?"

He enters the room and he shuts the door behind him. He looks out the window for a brief moment. From the angle his face is turned, I can't tell what's wrong.

"I don't necessarily like what you and Cameron are doing, but it's not my place to interfere with a grieving process. Stacy—" he turns to look directly at me (into my eyes—unsettling), "—and Chase don't like anything that could be construed as hurting them. They want me to go with them to Cuddy's office. So I'm going."

Foreman leaves as soon as 'going' exits his mouth. He walks out the door and slams it shut behind him with much more force than necessary. All my gape-mouthed questions fall into the silence of an empty room. The papers respond by rustling in the wind of some turned-up-too-high air conditioner. The walls shudder after Foreman's door slam.

"Why?"

It's the only coherent thought I can verbalize. Why would Stacy do this to me? Why does Chase feel like he needs to do this? What is Cuddy going to say? And where is Allison?

The chart before me (Valerie Nen's) is no longer the focus of my attention. How can it be? I'm human—my fate is more important than my patient's right now. This woman may have three more months to live. She can wait and enjoy a few more minutes of ignorance.

But why are Allison and I the targets of this witch-hunt? All of us have flirted with one another at one point in time. Chase flirts with the pretty young technicians. I flirt with any woman to keep my mind off my divorce. We all do it—consciously and unconsciously. We construe it as petty conversations, but why are my discussions with Allison anything more?

It's those damn questions Stacy asked me last night. Whether I know Allison is pregnant or not. Deny, deny, and deny I am taught constantly, but how can I deny a charge that Stacy will believe to be true regardless of my pleas? We're old friends, but Stacy is Stacy—she's all pomp and circumstance (truth, justice, and the American way, too.) She sees injustice and her trained eye drifts towards the law.

But why is she going after me so ferociously? We go back a long time—I introduced her to House. Something's wrong…

She's perceptive, but is she willing to take a risk with this…this vehemence towards the belief that I'm the father of Allison's baby? It could make Cuddy suspicious. But Cuddy's been so out of it lately. Out of all of us, Cuddy's the one most affected by House's death. Allison may be more vocal because of the hormones of pregnancy, but Cuddy is slowly unraveling inside…I can see it in her eyes.

What to do, what to do? I can storm in on the meeting and demand to know why people in this hospital tend to verge on the insane. I can sit here and wait for some verdict to come down on my fate. I can call Allison to see if she's okay. I can break Chase's neck…

The thoughts are only 'cans' and most of them are 'cannots' when reason permeates through the details. I realize my pen is clasped too tightly in my hand. I let it go and gently rub the bones. I've always had a bad habit of hanging on too tightly to things I shouldn't.

My legs are the first part of my body to move. No signal has been sent by my brain to _walk_ yet, but standing's a start. House stood like this. Stacy worries about me becoming House because I've gotten prickly. I've always been prickly, but House used to be around, and next to him I seemed tame. Stick a black next to a navy blue and the blue always seems lighter.

So, walk I do and it's onward to Cuddy's office. Step, step, step. Keep walking. Keep walking. Leave Valerie Nen's folder and life behind. Leave sanity. Leave _her_.

And the farther and farther I get from the office the only thoughts that I have are, oddly enough, something I haven't thought of lately. My divorce. Walk, and think of Julie's damning smirks and haughty calls to the lawyer. Think of how she derives sadistic, House-like pleasure from _not _moving out, but making me suffer her presence instead. It hurts me more that she calls Allison a home-wrecker because it's not Allison doing the home wrecking—it's Julie.

When I arrive outside Cuddy's office, I am reminded of the fact that Julie cites _irreconcilable differences_ as the reason for our divorce. Always so politically correct and vague—perfect for a Hollywood-following "humanoid."

Cuddy sees me, but Chase, Foreman, and Stacy do not. Cuddy makes no movement acknowledging she sees me, but I can see sorrow in her eyes. Even from here, it is evident that this woman is dangling over a cliff with a piece of floss. Sanity's the needle in the haystack in this hospital. No one is sane in this damn place.

She swivels her head to the corner and the others' heads follow. She's screaming…I can't hear the words, but I can hear the decibels. But the shouts move Stacy enough to make her get up and put a hand on Cuddy's arm. Cuddy shrugs it off and I imagine she screams at them to get out of the room.

Stacy, Foreman, and Chase do not leave and apparently Stacy's taught Chase the finer aspects of arguing a point before a biased and possibly not-so-sane judge. Play to the eccentricities.

So I move on past her office, for there is nothing I can do. My fate isn't in my hands and destiny never favors me anyway. I think for a minute about how many divorces I can gain in one lifetime—how many does Liz Taylor have? 8?

But isn't that the point? Marry and divorce so many times that all the bad memories fade into one miserable, manageable lump? No one remembers anyway—they gossip for a day before it disappears.

That's why I do not worry about everyone's accusations towards Allison and me. When the next nurse/intern coupling ensues, Allison and I will be left clinging like we always have been to the shards of three months ago.

And there's nothing any one of us can do about the events that will come. House's death, if we had only known then, would tear us asunder rather than insulate us. Be it Cuddy and her insanity, Chase and his insecurity, or Stacy and her own unshed grief, we're all slowly drifting…

And I have no idea where we're drifting…

At least I know we're all going to end up like House some day.


	10. Lisa Cuddy or 3 Months Later Part VI

**Author's Note: **Two or three more chapters left. Several tricks up my exceptionally long sleeves. And how I do love Cuddy POV's.

_Now the story's played out like this_

_Just like a paperback novel_

_Let's rewrite an ending that fits_

_Instead of a Hollywood horror_

_How the hell'd we wind up like this?_

_Why weren't we able_

_To see the signs that we missed_

_Try and turn the tables?_

_--Nickleback, "Someday"_

I watch with a weary eye as Stacy, Chase, and Foreman retreat from the room. My crazy outburst aimed at the House ghost or hallucination makes them think my anger has turned to madness. Wilson probably heard me ranting, too. I watch him with attentiveness. I can't save him (I can only save myself), but I must prevent him from following this path that I've laid.

So, Chase and Stacy want Wilson and Cameron reprimanded. Foreman thinks they're crazy. The board wants to know why my behavior's been erratic, and Steve refuses to play any tennis on account of his _tennis_ elbow (liar)—but it all seems so meaningless, since the ghost of Greg House is standing in front of me. Again.

"Why are you here?"

"I enjoy pissing you off."

I look at the man in front of me. It's a vision of some sort, I reason. He's standing in front of my desk, cane splays to his side, and he looks cockier than ever. I'm hallucinating. _Please, let me be hallucinating._

But the dogs bark. Death brings odd precursors.

"Why can't anyone else see you?"

"I'm not answering your questions. You're smart enough figure it out."

Still the same, sarcastic bastard. The afterlife has not treated him kindly, I suppose.

"Enlighten me."

"No one else wants to see me."

_Cameron's crumbling, Wilson's wilting, Stacy's shattering, and they don't want to see him? _Why me? Didn't I get enough of him in life? Did somebody slip something into my drink? I am going to kill whoever did it…I'll fire their ass faster than they can apologize. Apologies have never meant anything to me anyway.

"No one else wants to see you?"

"Si. Ellos no deseas mirar mi."

"Your sarcasm is bilingual."

"Oui."

"Trilingual?"

"Ask another question."

He never liked questions when he was alive. Questions now? He must be bored. Or he must need someone to play along with his game. It's twisted like it always is, but it is House (or a hallucinogenic House.)

"You have a cane."

"Good, Master Sherlock. Glad to see that you will escape without glasses for a few more years, but that's not a question."

"Could we make this a civil conversation?"

"Define civil."

"Without sarcasm."

"We're doctors, Cuddy, we don't do civil. We do feigned sympathy. The line between right and wrong is extremely fine. How many times do you straddle it to be civil? To feign sympathy?"

"This conversation isn't about me."

"No…you're right. It's about me. Ask a damn question."

"Do you still have Vicodin?"

"Amazingly, they don't seem to have a pharmacy where I am," but he nonetheless pulls a bottle of Vicodin out of his pants' pocket and shakes it around—the pills rattle along with the bounce of the bottle.

"Why do you need the cane?"

Yes, why does he need the cane? It's the afterlife, and, unless he's being punished for something, feeling isn't completely necessary.

"You ask terrible questions."

I need Advil. There's a pressure in my head. It's a throbbing pain bordering on insanity and migraine. God, it hurts.

"I don't know what to ask."

"Is your God, Dr. Cuddy, benevolent? Sure, he is, but that's not what's bothering you. Rephrase the question. Why do _you_ see me like this? Cane, limp, meds…doesn't turn you on. What's worse, Cuddy? The guilt of knowing that you like seeing me like this—humbled—or the acceptance of that guilt?"

"Fuck you."

"That doesn't get you off the hook."

"Did you know Wilson had a homeless brother? That Cameron married her husband when he was dying? That Chase's mother drank too much? That Foreman stole things? _We're_ the damaged ones. Look at me! Look at what I was—my team, you, Wilson, Stacy…all of us. All of us fit together in this damn puzzle. Don't you see?"

There's a tissue somewhere and I'd reach for it if I knew where it is, but I can't seem to remember where I put it. My eyes transfix on House as he limps around the room like a broken racehorse.

"You're damaged by guilt. Pay for my funeral, gravestone…makes it all better doesn't it? It doesn't and you know that. And everyone else thinks you're losing your mind to grief. No, Dr. Cuddy, you're not losing your mind to grief. You're losing your mind to guilt. But grief sounds so much better doesn't it? I thought you were supposed to be…_strong_, impenetrable," he sneers.

"Intimidation was your game and psychoanalysis is Cameron's."

"So? I thought sleeping with other doctors was your gig. Apparently that's fallen to Cameron now?"

"Out!"

"Do you know what they call her? They call her 'slut'. What's so wrong with her going out with Wilson? You were fine when it was me."

"Because you needed it!"

He stops his frenetic pacing around the room right in front of my desk. He swings his cane on top of my desk, in between pictures and memos and leans his head down. His eyes are the most shocking blue. As always, I forgot the little details that made him so menacing. His eyes are Santa Claus-ian, but his attitude is not. The eye color's innocence masks the rest of the body's experience.

"I didn't need anything. Get your sexual harassment policy right."

This whole thing is finally enough for me. I let my head sink on the desk against the layers of pages of desk calendars. Five pages including this month are left. Ripping each page off after each month was surprisingly satisfactory to me when I was younger. It meant life was moving. Now, it means that another month is passed and next, it'll be another useless year.

"Why am I like this?"

"I thought this conversation wasn't about you."

Damn him.  
"But I don't know. It's all in that pretty head of yours."

"You? The great Dr. House doesn't know?"

"I'm not here to talk about you."

"Then what the hell are you here for?"

"That meeting."

_That meeting_. The one I made myself look like an asshole in. Stacy and Chase are not only going to report Wilson and Cameron to the board, but probably me as well. I wonder if the asylum is looking for any deans of medicine…?

"And?"  
"Female. 32. Pregnant. Colleague and jealous woman want her gone. The boss she had a crush on has been dead for three months. Still grieving. Hang out too much with one oncologist. Differential diagnosis?"

"Sleeping with fellow doctor."

"Wrong."

"But it accounts for the symptoms. And _do not _tell me Cameron's the second-coming of the Virgin Mary."

"She's not. But you're missing something here. Quite like you, really, but typically you're smarter than this. You must really need me to keep you in line," he muses and looks up at the ceiling.

"What am I missing? It's not Wilson's baby. Cameron's not pregnant. Stacy's lying?"

"_Everybody lies_."

So it's everybody. Not everyone. It's every-damn-warm-body that can be found floating around this hospital (count the cold ones in the morgue, too—they probably lied somewhere along the lines, and thus are dead), sapping the money for their paychecks. Somebody shoot me.

"So, everyone's lying?"

"Even you're lying."

"Fill me in then. What the hell am I lying about?"

"Oh, you're not lying verbally. You're lying to yourself. Tell yourself that insanity's a better excuse than grief. Nice. I'll give you props there."

"I am not! I would never do that."

"Congratulations. Glad to hear it. Do you want a medal or a ribbon?"

"Go away."

"I'm only here because I'm protecting a friend."

"So you're a ghost."

"No, I never said that."

"So you're a figment of my imagination?"

"No, yo nunca hablo ese."

"I think you butchered whatever you said before."

"I hate conjugating Spanish verbs. Now, differential diagnosis, Dr. Cuddy. Where is Dr. Cameron today?"

"Sick?"

"With what?"

"Pregnancy?"

"Beep! You're _wrong_. Thanks for playing. Another dead body in the morgue for you!"

Then where is Cameron? Surely she can't be dead. If she were dead, I would have heard. House is just playing games with my mind. Apparently, he's bored.

"Overwhelming grief and hormones make people do very bad things," his voice drips with sarcasm.

"You're a hallucination."

"The mind makes us see what we want to. What we believe is another thing."

He points his cane to me and is gone. I don't want to think anymore. Cameron's going to die or is she already dead? Or am I making this all up because of a hallucinogen I don't even know I took? Stress makes people lose their minds. Grief makes people susceptible to phony schemes manufactured by a lost mind. Stress, grief, anger, guilt…

Emotions. Are. Pointless.

But where is Dr. Cameron today? I pick up the phone.

"Dr. Wilson."

"Wilson, it's Cuddy. Do me a favor—check out where Cameron is please. I know she said she's sick, but I…my insides are upset. I'd do it myself otherwise."

"Are you going to fire us?"

"I don't know. Is it your baby?"

"No, but that's pointless to tell you isn't it?"

"No. Goodbye."

I hang up quickly.

And it's the silence that is overwhelming. I grab my pen and make a note on the calendar under the date that says _August 14th_. My expensive pen scratches the cheap paper. _Get rid of the dogs_.

Three months. Three months. Three months. They say the number three is unique. The holy trinity. The three little pigs. The three parts of time (past, present, future.) Beginning, middle, end. Babe Ruth's number. The three witches in _Macbeth_. Heaven, Hell, and purgatory. And the list beats onward…

_And three doctors who received a fellowship with House._


	11. Allison Cameron & 3 Months LaterPart VII

**Author's Note: **One more to go! This might seem like I'm copying off runs with sissors "Up on the Rooftop," but I had this in the works before I read that.

_Oh apologies, no apologies, this apology_

_Doesn't describe the way it feels to feel for you_

_Waiting here for you_

_Wanting to tell you_

_How I find myself slowly disappearing too_

_Just the way you do_

_--The Counting Crows, "High Life"_

It's late. Maybe ten, maybe two. Time is inconsequential to me at the moment. The hospital, normally vibrant with dying and ill life, seems quiet except for the noise of my footsteps and the thumping of a cane.

Most of the staff has gone home. At least, the oncology area seems quiet as I pass. I run my hand over his door. The painted name contrasts enough with the glass of the door to give me chills when I run my nails over it.

I bend down and debate whether or not to slip the envelope under the door. It'll fit, I note, but I'm not sure if I'm actually going to go through with this. I push it under the door, anyway. I know I won't go through with this, but James should get the answers he deserves.

I do the same thing when I past the diagnostic conference room. I push my way in and leave two notes on the table: _Chase _says one and_ Foreman _says the other. I debate whether I should add their first names in as a nice gesture, but we've never been Robert, Eric, and Allison to one another. Always Chase, Foreman, and Cameron. They became our names—first and last spoken in one.

I leave quickly. Rowe doesn't need a note from me (Cuddy'll get my resignation letter). He and I have clashed and have an uneasy relationship. He'll tolerate me because I'm still on House's fellowship (icky hospital politics keeps me on under Rowe, even though he's a different doctor). But he won't get a damn ounce of my pen ink.

When I reach Cuddy's office the light is still on and she's sitting inside with a weary look on her face. I approach the door and slip the envelope underneath. She can accept my resignation and learn the reasoning for my lies, but I don't know if that'll save her from herself. She looks at me without seeing. Without believing.

So I climb the stairs to the roof. There's many stairs and by the time I reach the top I'm a bit winded. I haven't run in a few months because of the baby. My body can't withstand the pounding of running.

I know the door is open because the janitors, interns, and doctors who smoke like to come up here at night. It's peaceful. All stars and city lights with yourself in the middle of a big hospital. It's refreshing. And it's lonely.

My steps echo on the roof. I move along with the cane thinking of how _he _walked with _this _cane. My lips form a smile as I listen to these $500 shoes click and clack against the cement. It's an oddly euphonic melody. _Click, drag, clack, drag._ And I keep my eyes focused on these shoes instead of the stars.

I do want to look at the stars. All I want to do is look. Gaze upon a universe so infinite that no mortal can ever grasp its great width. The stars are gorgeous and that's why I like them. Being able to distinguish them as separate constellations is a bonus; the real joy is that there is a mutual understanding between them and me—they will always be bigger. But I know if I look, then I will think. And I don't need to think.

Because if I think I will weave more lies and continue to trip over them and then tangle everybody else up in them as well. James, poor James. And Cuddy. And Foreman. It's no good being noble—sacrificing yourself for something that doesn't exist. Nobility is an excuse to be killed. Nobility is an excuse to lose.

When I look up at the stars, I finally reach the edge of the roof. I slowly ease myself down to sit on the edge of it. I lay the cane across my lap and trace the wood. The wind blows through my loose hair and I look up at the stars.

_If you're going to jump, might as well jump now_. I figure that the backdrop of stars and loneliness is a beautiful tableau. The cane, I imagine, will clatter to my side when I fall. We'll be two objects, twirling, spinning, landing…beauty in symmetry and the fear of flying.

So, I stand. I toe the edge of the roof and it's all ground below me. The cane holds me, prevents me from moving any further. He's always prevented me from moving onward with my life.

"If you jump, I'll jump."

It's _James. _For a moment, I wish it were he—House. To save me, whisk me off to a cloudy palace…him, cane, and me. But it's not. It's his goddamn best friend who I've been trying to placate for months. I walk backwards. I never was going to jump. Cowards don't fly.

"Allison, this is the wrong way to deal with this. Think of the baby," he urges. I take a step towards him and away from the edge. I see his shoulders relax. He apparently snuck up on me while I was stuck in my useless reverie. So, now he and I stand here waiting for the other to make the wrong move.

"Nothing's ever right and nothing's ever wrong. This here—this isn't life and death—this is choice and consequence. I'm not going to jump. Never was. Why jump? I'm already broken."

"And shattering yourself into smaller pieces wouldn't do anything," he quietly responds.

"We waste most of our life sleeping, do you know that?"

"Yeah. Pitiful. Especially for people like us."

I lie down to look at the stars and he comes and lies next to me. The cane is comfortably between us.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For lying."

He turns his head to contemplate the rough cement.

"I just—I just needed something more to hold onto than just that cane and-and in moments of grief and insanity it just came to me."

He doesn't speak.

"And I wasn't going to jump, if you read your letter. How'd you find me up here?"

"Cuddy."

I nod. She saw me and whether she believes anything she sees she is still a smart and strong woman.

"I know it isn't Greg's and I knew it isn't mine. Whose is it?" He asks after several seconds of silence.

"I don't know. Some guy—I don't even remember his name. I think it was Steve from the ER? House was right—beauty gets me places I'd rather not be."

He snorts.

"So, you slept with Cuddy's boy toy. Funny. Kind of ironic. At least we know the person who would be at the start of any STD-related outbreaks. But, Allison…Cuddy, Chase, and Stacy think it's my baby made in a night of passion after House's death. I thought it was House's. And Foreman doesn't know what to believe. So tell me again why you think losing our jobs is worth this?"

I can get lost in the stars. The stars twinkle; the planets are constant lights. This light—it's old. It's history. It's time and change and constant motion. All lies and bullshit.

"It's not. But I'm resigning. I think working somewhere else would be a good idea."

"This is so screwed up."

I sigh and sit up and I do it too fast. A bout of nausea sweeps through and then recedes before I can actually regurgitate anything I've eaten in the past few hours.

"Yeah, it is."

"Why'd you want to meet House that night and why'd you need his cane?"

I purse my lips and think about whether it's easier to lie again or to tell the truth this time.

"I wanted to meet him because I wanted to make sure he was okay. Buy him a drink, you know? And then I walk in and the damn bartender's asking me to help the guy on the floor. And it's House. And there's blood. You know the story," I drift.

James grasps my hand.

"The cane?"

"There's nothing that screams "House" more than that damn cane."

"You didn't have to lie."

"But it made everything mean something, you know? Like it wasn't about House. I didn't think about him. This was a game to keep my mind occupied. Otherwise…I fell apart after my husband died. I didn't want House to be like that."

So the conversation dies on the wind. Manipulation, lies, and meaningless words swarm around our heads like bees droning on about some stupid issue. Here, in the quiet night, somewhere between ten and two, time loses itself and I think House is still alive and I am not pregnant.

In between the stars and James, time becomes irrelevant.

_**End Part II**_


	12. Gregory House or Epilogue

**Author's Note: **Mollisk: I was debating whether or not to kill Cameron. But then I kind of felt bad about killing House off and then her…it would've been a bit morbid. Thanks for everyone's reviews…stay tuned for a six-part character study of the characters by one another and a one-shot Cuddy POV piece. (Sorry for all the tense changing in this chappie. He's dead—grammar's not important.)

**Part III: Past, Present, Future (Beginning, Middle, End)**

_I took a guess and cut a portion out of my heart_

_He said that's nowhere close enough but it's a damn good start_

_I wrote the secret that I buried on the wishing well wall_

_He said I've seen one... it follows that I've seen them all_

_We spoke of human destination in a perfect world_

_Derived the nature of the universe (found it unfulfilled)_

_As I took him in my arms he screamed I'm not insane_

_I'm just looking for someone to understand my pain..._

_--Five for Fighting, "The Devil in the Wishing Well"_

So, the story ends with Part III, a summation of the facts. The closing argument. The catalyst's force is not felt and people return to normal. Lies are corrected and truths are finally told. Rights are wronged and righted again and everything and everyone keeps tumbling, tumbling through the universe. It's gravity and solar wind that makes us tumble…

But essentially it's time that makes us stumble on our own two (supposedly) secure feet. Time moves on and on…slowly, progressively, but always _moving_. It's time that eases aches, it's time that puts houses in front of the sea, it's time that makes us change…grow…and accept.

""""""

Death is not something I am going to wax poetic about tonight. It's a terrible feeling and I don't expect living people to understand. How can you explain something so…gruesome...to people who believe in their own immortality? (God, I'm worse than a _General Hospital _episode. I miss that show.)

Time, it seems, is not a property that is pertinent in the winter season. It's simply a (pardon the pun) waste of time to dwell on time because you're stuck here for all eternity. What's the reason to tell time? Differentiate between eons?

But, at Princeton-Plainsboro, time passes. It is no longer marked by the anniversary of death, but by the anniversary of birth, love, and, at some point, death again. A tennis match is played, lost, and played again. Mays pass and Cameron sheds her tears. My grave becomes overgrown; Cuddy screams at the landscapers.

Ultimately, this was never my story. It was about everyone else and their battles with the soul and demons that I wasn't there to antagonize. No, this was never about me.

Cameron wanted a wounded puppy to fix that night. I wanted a lot of alcohol and foggy (not crystal clear) memories of Stacy. She asked me to meet her at the bar. The girl scouts were calling: they wanted to know how many brownie points she had accumulated over the month. She mustn't have had enough; she needs me—a charity case.

It _was _my fault. I've always been…noble...when someone's honor is at stake (or, of course, when assholes take advantage of other people—that's my territory). So, be a crippled hero and throw yourself on a guy who's got a one-leg advantage…didn't somebody say something about the smartest people being the ones with the least common sense?

So, Florence Nightingale swooped in and tried to fix me with a bunch of paper napkins, but it didn't do any good. She wasted her time and probably ruined a very nice and expensive suit. But, hey, at least Cuddy felt guilty about the whole thing even when none of it was her fault (so that's how I was supposed to get her to let me off clinic duty.)

Reminiscing on death when one's dead is of no use. I'm dead, there's nothing I can do to change that. Reminiscing on the living, however, is what is known in the living world as "gossip." Who ever said gossip was something Gregory House refrained from?

So, Wilson finally came around and decided that raising Cameron and Steve-the-ER-whore's kid would be a good idea. He lives with her now and everyone considers them to be a married couple (except for the fact that they're not married.) Both happily retained their jobs, although Steve (yes, Mr. Fuck-the-Dean-of-Medicine-and-then-anyone-else-with-a-vagina) suffered the consequences of screwing around (hehe, literally and figuratively) with Cuddy. Badda bing, badda boom.

Oh, yes darling Dr. Cuddy. She finally stopped having her dreadful hallucinations after she finally confronted Wilson and Cameron about what was going on between those two. The dogs receded, she regained her sanity, and Steve was fired. Yes, all is well with Dr. Cuddy.

Foreman works quietly in the hospital. He does his job, is good at what he does, and then goes home at night. He dates, but not often. He spends Friday nights with a basketball game (some of fall, winter, and into summer) or a baseball game (summertime and early fall.) He lives a happy life. Good for him.

Chase flirted with Stacy until she and Mark left the hospital. Those two made me sick. A secret: Stacy's quite a bit older than darling Dr. Chase. He brooded before meeting some hot young lawyer at a bar one night. Needless to say they're happily married with several little Chase's running around. All just as cute as their dear father. It makes me all warm and tingly inside (well, if I was capable of feeling in my crippled leg.) But hey, the world needs more good-looking people. Pay doctors and teachers pennies and give the pretty people millions. Jesus, they already got the looks!

But time moves in its happy little cycles and birth and death become one and the same. That night that Wilson and Cameron laid on the roof side-by-side, I wished that she had jumped. It's lonely here and if I was voluntarily lonely when I was alive, I secretly hoped that I would not be alone here. But when I discovered I was—I couldn't help but cheer Cameron on when she stood on the edge of the roof, even if she I knew she wouldn't drop. She's an atheist—she didn't believe that I would be waiting on the other side for her.

It's here I wait, for her, for Cuddy, for Wilson…wait. That's all one can do. Store up the sarcasm for when it's needed and take up knitting (well, coming up with reasons not to take up knitting). And as I wait, I watch Cameron and Wilson together. I don't believe in God, but fate's a nice concept.

She has me because she holds on to my cane. My impediment—her savior. She may have once blamed herself for my death, but she has Wilson now. He's healed most of her wounds…

And time has healed the rest.

_**End Part III**_

_**End "Time"**_


End file.
